heads, bobbing the spiked ends of their blood-caked hair, then sat, sober-faced, outside the mouth of the cave.
Wisps of steam and burning, sulfurous vapors swirled around Hoxitl as the high priest entered the cave. He threw back his black hood and peered into the darkness, which was faintly broken by occasional flickering pools of crimson bubbling rock.
Suppressing a cough, Hoxitl held his breath as he passed a noxiously spuming geyser. Tears came to his eyes, further blinding him.
Then he sensed the presence of one of the Ancient Ones as the shadowy figure moved from an alcove to block his path.
'Praises to Zaltec!' whispered the cleric.
'High praises to the god of night and war!' hissed the black-cloaked figure, completing the ritual greeting.
Hoxitl stared at the Ancient One as he had stared a score of times before, but he learned nothing he had not learned from previous observations. Who are you? What are you? he wondered.
The Ancient One stood shorter than Hoxitl, and his figure was more slight. His body was completely swathed in dark robes and cloth, down to the thin gauze that concealed his hands while still allowing him full use of his dextrous, slender fingers.
'The sign,' began Hoxitl. 'We must know the meaning!'
'We know of your concern, and its significance.' The dark figure spoke in muffled tones, his voice coarse. 'You have guessed correctly in your words to the counselor. The fire in the sky is indeed the sign of Zaltec's hunger. He must have more hearts! He starves for lack of blood!'
Hoxitl nodded, pleased with his analysis of the sign, yet deeply disturbed by this evidence of the Ancient One's wisdom. This frail figure knew what had transpired in the Revered Counselor's throne room that very afternoon!
'But there is more.' The voice of the Ancient One dropped even further, to a dull rasp. 'Zaltec desires the heart of a young girl, a child living in the village of Palul. Her name is Erixitl, and her life must be given to Zaltec by the close of this tenday.'
'As you wish. Our temple in Palul will claim her for evening sacrifice as soon as I can send word.' Hoxitl did not bother asking why this particular girl had been deemed a threat to Zaltec. The word had been given, and the life of one more peasant girl amidst the dozens of sacrifices made to Zaltec each evening would not be noticed.
'Do not fail in this!' The words of the Ancient One this time were unusually strained, Hoxitl thought. He tried to fill his own voice with confidence. After all, he was the supreme human cleric of Zaltec, wielder of the Viperhand — but even to himself, the words sounded hollow.
'She shall be dead before next we meet.'
From the Chronicle of the Waning:
Dedicated to the resplendent glory of the Plumed One, Golden Qotal.
The passing of an empire and a people can be a gradual thing, measured not in days nor years but in generations and centuries. Yet the waning of the Nexala, by this scale, becomes a sudden and cataclysmic plummet to disaster.
Even so, my chronicle must pass ten years in the space of these words. More threads must gather, and those at the core of the tale must grow firm and strong.
The portents shown to Naltecona grow more dire. His armies meet continual disaster in Kultaka. Bloody Zaltec, according to his patriarch, is displeased, and more slaves and captives are offered to sate his gory appetite.
The threads of the children grow firmly to young adulthood, one as a slave girl of the Kultaka, the other as a proud soldier, mastering on the field of battle the confidence that eluded him in the wizard's tower.
And now my portents show me another, a master warrior of the same race as young Halloran. But this is a man of great power over others, capable of brilliance and cruelty, remarkable audacity and perplexing greed. He is a commander of warriors the like of which I have never seen, and under his command they seem invincible. I know that he is to be a prime instrument of the Waning.
His name is Cordell.
THE CONQUEROR
Two dozen galleys surged through the narrow strait, oars beating the water in powerful cadence. Two dozen banners streamed in the air, representing an equal number of pirate captains. This fleet included the most savage buccaneers of the Pirate Isles.
Wicked battering rams — copper-tipped beams mounted in the bow of each galley — turned toward shore as Akbet-Khrul, Grand Vizier of the Pirate Isles and scourge of the Sword Coast, sent his fleet racing for the beach.
In moments, each brightly painted vessel struck the sandy bank, riding well above the surf on the force of its momentum. Instantly savage crews swarmed from their vessels, massing on the beach in a broad formation glittering with scimitars, spears, and axes.
The pirates of Akbet-Khrul were the most numerous, the most barbarous of the buccaneers inhabiting the Pirate Isles. Their unequalled and ferocious cruelty had earned them prominence among those isles. Now only a small group of mercenaries, hired by the desperate merchants of Amn, stood between Akbet-Khrul and complete domination of the waters off the central coast.
'Forward to the legion's destruction!' The pirate lord himself, Akbet-Khrul, gestured toward the line of defenders arrayed upon a low hilltop. 'Let not one of them escape my wrath!'
The pirates surged forward, flushed with savage confidence. There were six of them for every one of the defenders on the distant hill, and the greatest worry in their captains' minds was that the mercenary legion before them would come to its senses and flee before the pirates could reach them.
Harsh voices barked through the morning air, and even the whirling gulls ceased their cries as the army began to advance. The flocks wheeled in graceful silence over the colorful phalanxes gradually moving inland from the rocky shore.
Banners fluttered in a breeze that slowly became a wind. The pirate army, three thousand strong, spread across a mile of frontage. Its wings spread hungrily, and its greedy jaws prepared to swallow the tiny group of defenders arrayed before it.
Then suddenly the whole mass of colorful, steel-bristling pirates halted and stood restlessly, waiting.
Ten figures dressed in shining crimson silks strutted forward from the pirate mass, each followed by a pair of retainers carrying a round iron pot. The black kettles contained heaps of glowing coals, frequently emitting sparks of hissing embers.
Ten pots were suspended from tripods, ten fires quickly kindled. Slowly, at first indistinct in the sunlight but soon glowing angrily, a fire thickened and brewed in each caldron.
Suddenly, one after another, the blazes surged upward until a tall column of fire erupted from each of the iron kettles.
These columns took shape, swirling and growing, sprouting limbs, leering with flame-scribed faces, until they became not columns of fire, but beings of fire. These beings remained in contact with their caldrons, but strained and reached in a crackling effort to break free.
Suddenly, as if in answer to a single command, each blazing figure twisted away from its pot and swept across the plain, a cyclone of fiery anger directed against the enemy beyond. Following in the scorched path of the fire things, the pirate army roared its lust for battle and surged forward.
'Perfect.'
The remark, spoken with cool self-confidence, came from the midst of the company deployed on the hilltop. A golden pennant fluttered from a long pole beside him. As the wind snapped it taut, its emblem appeared: a shrieking golden eagle, wings spread and claws outstretched. Emblazoned in the bird's breast was the staring eye
